“Mr. Fagan, I've studied this part rather more carefully than you have. If the author is in the house, I'd like to appeal to him as to whether my conception is correct.”
There was such a quiver of passion in his voice that even Fagan seemed taken aback.
“What's got into you folks to-day?” he growled. “Oh, very well. Is Mr. Sampson here?”
The little man behind me got up and walked down the aisle in an embarrassed way.
“Mr. Author,” said Fagan, “have you been watching the rehearsal?”
Sampson murmured something.
“Is Mr. Edwards doing the part as you want it done?”
“Mr. Edwards is perfectly right,” said Sampson.
“Thank you, sir,” said Edwards from the stage. “Fagan, when you are ready to conduct rehearsals like a gentleman, I will be here.” He turned and walked off the stage.
Brooks snapped his cigarette case to, and the sharp click seemed to bring the scene to an end. Fagan picked up his coat from the seat beside him. “Bolshevism!” he said. “All right, folks, ten o'clock to-morrow, here. Miss Cunningham, will you tell Mr. Edwards ten o'clock tomorrow?”